Aftermath
by kamikaze-djali
Summary: A short, rather brutal, story describing the interactions between Claude Frollo and Quasimodo. Please read & review. Disney's HoND with a dash of Victor Hugo. It's my favourite Hunchback fanfic, even though it's short.


* Have had this story on my own website for a very long time, figured it would be good to share here, since I've heard that Quasi fic is rare. This is more or less an experiment, just to see what happens. Please read & review. **Please be aware that this story strongly applies abuse. It's up for your interpretation whether it's real or not, I've tried to leave it open.  
  
Aftermath  
  
"Remember that you are a monster, a hideous and ugly monster. You will never belong, I am your only true friend." The tall man in the black cassock approached the trembling figure standing before him, circling him as if a vulture. "It is with great disappointment that I remind you that this is your sanctuary, you are never to leave either by night or day."  
  
"No, Master, please. Mercy!" The young man pleaded, his eyes following those of the man drifting closer to him. Suddenly the eyes of the young man grew wide; there would be no mercy. "I'm sorry, Sir." Holding his hands together as in prayer, he watched from his lowered gaze as the tall man stepped behind him, out of view. The man spoke as he walked.  
  
"You are ungrateful to me, after all I've done for you. I took you in when your mother abandoned you to die, have fed you, dressed you, raised you as if you were my own son, yet you disobey my one simple request."  
  
The cloaked figure grasped the young man by his shirt collar from behind, pulling his head backward. Coughing, the young man shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, straining to release himself from his own clothing, his face reddening to the shade of his hair. Tearing at the cloth with his fingers, he was released, then knocked to the floor with a sharp kick to his right side. On his knees, the young man gasped for breath, his eyes wide open, staring at the wooden floorboards which lay but a handbreadth away.  
  
The crouched figure knelt close to the floor as the tall man leered over him in silence, his eyes downcast in an icy stare. The man on the floor craned his short neck to meet with the tall man's piercing eyes, then drew into himself. Softly closing his lids, the young man lowered his head to his chest, gently biting his lower lip into his mouth with his jagged teeth, resigning himself to his fate. He let his head rest onto his trembling fists, the joints of his thumbs pressed between his eyes and nose in order to stifle the tears that would soon threaten to fall. To shed tears would be to admit pain, to admit pain was to show weakness.  
  
At that moment a cold December wind blew through the tower, sending a faint dusting of snow onto the scarred and naked back of the young man. The snowflakes twinkled as they made the transition from stars into the droplets of sweat, then fell onto the damp floor. Those that came to rest on the mans' hair remained frozen.  
  
The tall man reached into the folds of his cassock, nine leather tendrils with metallic claws sparkled as they came into the flickering candlelight. The claws sounded as they struck against each other, their bearer drawing his chin upward as his nostrils flared. The corners of his mouth drew downward, his upper lip curled upon itself. The man's eyes were hard as the coldest iron, his bony white knuckles of his right hand grasping the handle of his weapon, the left caressing the black leather. The fabric of the man's robe moved silently with the draft blowing through the tower. Ready to strike, the man stood with his right foot a few centimeters from those of the young man. To see the tall man at that moment was to recoil with fear. The young man's heart pounded against the wall of his chest, yet he remained motionless.  
  
The robed figure drew a long breath, twitching his head slightly to the right as he did so, his eyes flashing wildly with fury. His upper lip drew tight, baring a row of perfectly white teeth and an evil smile. His right arm drew the black tendrils of the weapon through his palm and past his shoulder in an arc. In one motion the lashes sounded out against the naked flesh of the young man, scattering the birds from the tower.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Quasimodo awoke from his disturbed sleep, having shaken himself into a cold sweat. He drew his cover close to his bare chest, himself against the wall. He peered around his room by the light of a dying candle; the room was empty. Leaning into the furthest corner of his bed, Quasimodo scanned the room anxiously, there had to be someone else here, someone was waiting. "I'm not safe here, but where can I go?"  
  
Quasimodo continued to draw himself into the corner, scanning the near darkness, his eyes fixing themselves on the open doorway. A steady stream of cold air blew softly and silently through the darkness toward the bed where he sat trembling, not of cold but of fear. Nothing could stop him from coming in at any moment; he would be here at any minute to deliver his wrath. Quasimodos' large fingers anxiously kneaded the corners of the quilt, at which point he came to his senses. Frollo was dead  
  
Realizing he was safe, Quasimodo relaxed a little and lay down on the soft feather mattress once more. Having grown up with a wooden plank and tattered sheet as a bed, a soft mattress, pillow and linen sheets were warmly received. The quilt was what he loved most of all, Esmeralda had given it to him.  
  
The candle gave a few last flickers, all was dark. Slipping his hands behind his head and around his hump, Quasimodo let his mind wander back to early January when within a few days everything he'd ever dreamed became reality. Fate had finally given him the freedom he sought; with it came close friends and acceptance by the populace. Few stared at him and if they did it was more out of curiosity. To be laughed at now meant he'd said or done something amusing, which didn't matter much. No longer was he merely "the hunchback", he'd become "Monsieur Bellringer" to those that did not know him well and "Quasi" to those that did. Everything had changed.  
  
Trying to sleep was useless, rest was more familiar to him. Drawing the quilt up to his chest, Quasimodo ran his callused fingers over the soft embroidery. Thinking aloud, Quasimodo let a few words escape into the darkness of the tower.  
  
"Only the bells remain constant." In that he was mistaken, as his freedom had brought new life into them as well.  
  
Adjusting the pillow to the left side of his neck, he stared up at the darkness. There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Nobody would laugh at him, nobody would run. Clopin would wish him a good morning, he would buy bread and wine in the marketplace and walk about the city just as any other Parisian. He'd go to the tavern with Phoebus, share a dinner with his friends in the Court of Miracles, or join the rest of Paris during mass; things that never would have happened a month ago. Out there with the rest of society, a dream that had finally come true. 


End file.
